Hanging by a Moment
by broken-hearted wings
Summary: Sam's having a really bad day. Guess who'll come to his rescue? Rated T for cussing and mild gore.


**~!~ This is another story I managed to get up before my internet dies again. It's a lovely little story that beats on Sam Winchester some and lets Dean come to the rescue. I like it, even if it is a bit rushed. My first Supernatural story and an interesting one, at that. It's WeeChesters, so I had to guess some on the attitude and outlook of Sam in his mind, because this is before the whole Came-Back-From-The-Dead thing, so he hasn't gone darkside yet. Also, once you've read it, please review and tell me if you'd be interested in a parallel of this story using Dean's POV? I think that would be pretty interesting. Slightly toasty marshmellows and Hershey bars to all who review! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Which is absolutely terrible, as far as I'm concerned. Such a wonderful dream of mine. I wonder if Sera Gamble will share? ****~!~**

"Agh!" Sam leapt backwards, fear shining in his face before he fell, his own feet sending him tumbling downwards into a pile of flailing limbs that had narrowly missed getting squashed by a roaring bus. His heart started beating after what felt like an eternity of him convincing himself that lying there like a frozen statue of frightened Samuel Winchester wasn't going to help, but before he could get to his feet, someone was rushing over to him.

A woman, who looked like she'd had several plastic surgeries and had been wearing heavy make-up since she was twelve grabbed his arm and helped him right himself. Her eyes, which he could barely see under the thick caking of mascara, were a dull color.

"You all right, sonny?" He blinked at her in confusion and rubbed the back of his head, where he could feel a knot forming. Sam didn't think he was all right. He felt a little woozy, could feel the beginnings of some colorful bruises on his back, had scrapes on his hands, and could taste blood where he'd bitten his tongue. But he knew exactly what his father would say.

_Suck it up, Sammy. You know those monsters aren't going to give you a break because you've a few bruises. You have to fight on their level._

He took a deep breath and gave her a watery smile. The twelve-year-old was strong, for someone his age. He had to be, considering who his father was.

"I'm fine, ma'am, thanks." She nodded and wobbled away on amazingly high heels. He shook his head and readjusted his backpack. He was actually supposed to be at school right now and had no idea how he'd ended up over here, where there wasn't a school, or a kid, in sight. Everyone he saw had dark, angry looks and greasy hair, and quite a few were packing heat. Kids his age weren't supposed to know how to look for that sort of thing, but Sammy had training.

As he walked along the street and wished for the fifty-second time that he'd decided to bring his phone to school today, Sam continually checked behind him to make sure that no one was following him. He felt very nervous and one of the scrapes on his left palm was bleeding. He wiped it on the inside of his jacket, knowing the stain would probably be there for a long time, since they didn't make laundry runs often, and not really caring at the moment. He really wanted to find another bus that he could take to get the heck out of here.

Three seconds later, he was being dragged into a dark alley.

_Man, who robs helpless kids? What kind of jerk-_

Someone grabbed his hair and his hands automatically went to the offending limb, one set of fingernails finding the tendons in the arm and digging in fiercely. A loud yelp sounded behind him and he yanked free, spinning around and holding up his fists, an angry glint in his normally gentle eyes.

His attacker was a dirty man with a glaring scar on the side of his head and bulging eyes. He was holding his arm and looking rather shocked. Sam felt the desire to be a little spiteful, but he didn't want to make this anymore complicated than it had to be. He didn't like hurting people.

"Listen, whoever you are. I'm not playing around. I just want to get to school! So just leave me alone, all right? We don't have to fight right no-"

But the dirty man was swinging. Sam ducked and backed up, putting his book bag down so that it wouldn't get in his way. The man laughed at him. Sam narrowed his eyes and kicked. His leg folded and then shot out, landing a perfect hit on the man's crotch. With a squeal, the man's legs buckled and Sam stepped away, biting back his disgust.

"Maybe the next time you look at a kid, you'll think twice about trying to rob them." Sam said harshly, picking his backpack up and slinging it onto his shoulders. He strode out of the alleyway and walked on down the road, feeling rather proud of himself. He was debating on how to inform Dean that he'd won a fight with a crazy gangster when he ran into a telephone pole.

Sam staggered backwards, a hand shooting to his nose and feeling the gush of warm blood spilling onto his fingers with a sinking feeling. The pole started wobbling in his blurry vision and Sam flinched, backing rapidly out of the way and running into another person. He whirled around, still clutching his nose, and saw a girl; several years younger than him gasp and flee, shrieking at his bloody nose. Sam struggled to hold onto his fraying patience.

_I'm not a freak, I'm not a monster. Stop judging me._

He hurried into the store that was closest to him, rushing up to the cash register, with a young woman chewing on her gum like she was trying to burn calories, and asked for a tissue box. She looked at him, and without the slightest interest or concern, said,

"That'll be seven dollars." Sam gaped at her and then bought it, scowling, and plastering the tissues against his nose.

"Let me guess." She said, in an obnoxious Southern accent that made him think of bright obnoxious red tractors. "You got inna fight." She looked at him through the corner of her eye. He made a face.

"Yeah, with a pole. Thanks for the tissues." He hurried out of the store, shoving the box into his backpack and finding out the time.

9:30 a.m.

"Dangit!" He wanted to yell at somebody, but of course, refrained. He was more than just late for school. No one knew where he was. His father was off hunting, so calling him for help wouldn't work, nor would he do something that embarrassing anyway. He didn't want his dad thinking he was a complete failure. That left his brother, but Sam didn't want to embarrass himself in front of Dean either.

He knew if his older brother knew he was in this part of town, alone, without a phone, he'd be down here in an instant, school or not. That was what made Dean such an awesome brother. But Sam didn't want to get him in trouble with Dad either. He was going to find his way out of this mess by himself.

The young boy checked the tissues and saw, thankfully that the blood flow was slowing down.

He had enough time to realize this before he felt an extreme chill come over him and looked up nervously. He knew that feeling.

Sam whirled, looking for an electronic device of some kind. His eyes fell upon a TV set in a nearby window, and it was flickering badly, marring the picture and replacing the sound with static. A man behind the counter turned and tapped it with a frown. Sam swallowed hard. He wasn't armed to deal with anything major. He had a knife in his shoe and that was it. If weapons were found on them at school, they were screwed, so they couldn't just walk around packing heat in their pants, as much as Dean insisted that he already did.

He swallowed again, feeling his throat drying quickly enough to make him cough and he backed into the wall, keeping an eye out for a spirit as he tried to think of a plan. Finally, Sam ducked into the café he'd been standing outside of and headed straight for the cash register.

"Ma'am, may I borrow your phone, please? It's an emergency." He asked the lady there, who actually looked kind. Her look was one of pity.

"Of course, just don't leave the café with it." She handed over a Razr and he started texting frantically, knowing that his brother's phone would be on silent. The TV set behind the woman flickered again, buzzing loudly, and echoing in Sam's ears, driving him to move his thumbs faster.

_Sam: Got lost, don't know where I am, feeling spirit's presence._

He felt like that got the point across without saying what he was thinking: Help!

Hardly thirty seconds later,

_Dean: howre u lost? find street sign and give me the number._

His brother's order made things a little easier. He asked the waitress what street they were on and she told him.

_Sam: West Boulevard. _

_Dean: ur in the damn ghetto! howd that happen?_

_Sam: Got off at the wrong spot. Are you coming?_

_Dean: what do u think?_ Sam bit back a smile.

_Sam: Please don't tell Dad._

_Dean: u think? call me, im out of school. stay on the line._

Sam looked at the waitress, who was taking another man's order, but was keeping her eyes on him. He slipped into a bar, made eye contact with her, and then started dialing. Dean's loud voice penetrated and made him jump despite himself.

"How the hell did you get lost? This town's not big enough to hold twenty-five people, let alone enough streets to get someone confused." Sam rolled his eyes.

"I told you, I got off at the wrong spot and ended up in the wrong part of town."

"Geez, Sammy. Can't stay out of trouble for one day." Sam bit his lip and put another tissue to his leaking nose.

"Sorry." Apparently, Dean had been expecting more of a fight, because his voice sounded worried when it next crackled over the phone.

"I 'spose it's not really your fault." He sighed, so as to make sure his little brother knew that he wasn't off the hook yet. "Seen any more signs of the ghost yet?" Sam shook his head and then remembered that Dean couldn't see him.

"There was that cold feeling and the flickering of a TV, but it's been quiet for a couple of minutes now." Sam said, looking around. Sure enough, the television was performing normally and everything seemed to be at its normal temperature.

"Okay, good. Whenever Dad gets back, we'll tell him that you felt a spiritual presence around, so he can take a look."

"Yeah. How'd you get out of school?" Sam asked, curiously.

"I told the teacher I had to pee. And then bolted." Sam blinked.

"Without your backpack?" Dean chuckled in response.

"No one's going to steal it. They're all afraid of me already. It'll be lost and found when I come back tomorrow."

"Okay, but you're going to-" _Tssssshhhh._ Sam's head jerked up. The TV set was flickering frantically, almost losing its picture.

"What? Sam?" The twelve-year-old took a deep breath, sitting up and looking around.

"The ghost's back."

"Shit. The bus isn't here yet. Isn't going to be for another ten minutes. _Shit._" Sam's stomach twisted. He put his foot on the seat under him and pulled out the knife, concealing it in his hand as he gazed around, trying to find the source of the cold chill that was now passing over him. Dean's voice came over the phone dimly, as if there was roaring in his ears. He'd never faced a ghost alone, unarmed.

"Hold on, Sammy, I'm going to get there. I won't let you fight alone, okay, can you hear me?" Sam's mouth was dry and he had to struggle to swallow.

"Dammit, Sammy, don't go silent on me!"

"Sorry, Dean, I'm sorry. I can't see the spirit. I don't know where it is!" Sam twisted in his chair, ignoring the look on the person across from him's face. He felt panic suffusing him and bit his lip hard.

He heard the loud revving of a car and jerked in reflex, but realized that it was coming from his phone and frowned.

"Dean?"

"Just hold on, Sam, I'm coming."

"Ar-are you in a car?"

"Yeah, I'll return it later." His brother's voice was short, harsh, and stressed. Sam felt a pit open up in his stomach as he gazed at the TV set that could not seem to regain its picture and sound.

_I didn't mean to get you so worried. I was trying to get myself out of this mess. I'm sorry._

The crash of shattering glass echoed and he was on his feet, searching for the source of the noise, the phone wobbling in his fingers. Screaming blazed past him as someone came stumbling out of the small kitchen, eyeless and bleeding from every pore. The shrieking and wailing started almost immediately, people throwing themselves from their seats as they rushed for the door.

Tables overturned, chairs flew, and mugs of coffee were falling to the floor. Things were breaking, shattering, obliterating themselves to nothingness all around him and the heinous sound of screaming and breaking and cracking made him want to crouch and clap his hands over his ears.

_I'm a Winchester. We don't run from anything._ The place was almost abandoned, leaving him alone with the stumbling, wailing victim, his grotesque appearance having sent everyone but Sammy away from his presence.

Sam was standing still, trying to pinpoint the ghost when he saw a ragged man appear behind the victim and take him down with one clean sweep of his scythe. Blood spurted. Sam choked down his desire to puke. This was easily one of the most disgusting kills he'd ever seen. In his ear, he could hear Dean yelling his name. But he couldn't even swallow, let alone speak.

The ghost came for him and he dropped the phone, freeing both of his hands and after a moment of brief inspiration, picked up one of the iron decorations, a book stopper, and hurled it at the ghost, who dodged easily. Sam put the knife in his right hand and started praying.

_I really don't want to die. I've got so much to do. Please, don't take me away now._

The ghost swung his scythe at him, his beard filled with nasty things that didn't belong in beards, and Sam dodged, not even trying to block that blow with his small weapon. The tiny thing he had would be good for shoving up between ribs, because it was small and thin, but made of silver and iron, so that it would make the best defense against all things supernatural. But it wasn't made for what he needed, something big that would take an attack coming from this spirit's monstrous scythe.

Sam backed away and bumped into a chair, knocking it aside as he all but dived, struggling to keep himself out of range. He was fast and had good reflexes, but there was little more than that and it was only keeping him alive. The ghost moved incredibly fast and his speed was forcing Sam to make greater and greater escapes, escapes that burned his energy and weakened him continually. He felt fear build up and found it harder and harder to breath.

Desperation made him creative. He flung himself behind a table, pressed himself against the wall, and kicked it into the ghost, who had to avoid it, as it was iron, and gave Sam the chance to think. He scrambled to the kitchen and started arming himself with iron ammo, using as much metal as he could, hurling it at the ghost and sending it this way and that in order to avoid the instruments that would create it pain.

His hand fell on a bucket of wet utensils and he up-ended them at the ghost, who was promptly attacked with a dozen forks, spoons, and knives. The man howled, jerking away, and that was when things started getting interesting.

Sam attacked in earnest, slashing with his knife. He landed a vicious cut and the ghost disappeared. Breathing hard, he fell against the countertop and looked around, determined to not let the ghost sneak up on him, knife held at the ready.

Then, there was a loud blaring of horns and more screaming. Sam started.

_No! What if it went outside to find easier prey?_ He knew that wasn't how ghosts thought, they were vengeful not rational, but he was running on adrenaline and fear. Sam tried to breathe deeply.

He heard the screaming stop and a car door slammed. Then, he felt that cold chill and looked around frantically. A disgusting arm rose above him, invisible to his eyes. The door across from him was slung open and the eyes of his brother were staring at him, shocked and, though Dean'd never admit it later, afraid. Dean's eyes then flicked upwards and he yelled,

"Sam! Get down!" And lifted a hefty shotgun, cocking it. Sam dropped, looking upwards as he landed, sprawling on the floor, and saw the ghost looming over him, scythe up-raised.

_Bang. Bang. _The ghost dissipated and Sam was left cowering on the floor and trying not to hyperventilate.

"Sam!" Dean was there, grabbing his shoulder and lifting him up, so that he was leaning against the wall in a semi-sitting position, instead of doing a drooling face plant on the floor. His brother's face was terrified and very worried. Sam could see his brother's eyes tracing his injured nose and then dropping to the scratched palms and the bruises just apparent from where his shirt lifted.

"The hell? The ghost did all this?" Dean sounded furious. Sam found it easier to breath.

"Not all of it.." He took another breath and answered Dean's incredulous gaze. "I fell over and then ran into a telephone pole. That was, er, before I met the ghost. Oh, and I got in a fight with some thief too. Tried to rob me."

Normally, he would've bragged a little, but even that was beyond him. Sam was too busy celebrating his victory over what he'd thought would be a gruesome and very painful death. Dean stared at him.

"So, you fell over, ran into a pole, got in a fight, and then found a ghost? Damn." Sam took another deep breath. Dean shook his head.

"Come on, let's get out of here before the cops show." Sam nodded and Dean helped him up, wrapping an arm around his little brother's waist. Sam accepted the help, knowing that his brother rarely showed affection like this. He also knew, even though Dean wasn't showing it, that he'd really scared him.

They made their way out the back and Sam blinked at the Honda in front of them.

"Did you steal-"

"I'll return it." Dean told him, helping him into the passenger seat and getting into the driver's seat himself. "Hey, if you see that guy who attacked you, point him out to me." Sam looked at him.

"Why?" Dean scowled.

"So I can run him over with someone else's car. Duh." Sam gave him a look and rolled down the car window. Dean made an irritated noise, hardly glancing at the road as he stared at his young brother.

"Seriously, what'd you do to get this kind of karma? Do you think your nose is broken?" Sam shrugged and touched his nose gingerly. He couldn't think of anything he'd done that was bad enough for this. Dean was the one who stole, broke into places, and lied like sin.

"I don't think it's broken, I didn't hear anything breaking and it doesn't hurt that much anymore." He sighed. Dean nodded, making a quick turn that had Sam gripping the door handle to hold himself steady.

"Oops." Dean said, casting around in the glove compartment until Sam made an impatient noise and did it himself, pulling out bandages to wrap around his hands. Dean pulled back and leaned against his seat, still not paying much attention to the road. There wasn't anyone out on the dirt country road, and he already knew the town like the back of his hand.

"You have any idea what that ghost was?" Sam shook his head, absorbed in cleaning his left palm with a wipe.

"Not really. Dad never looked into this place and we didn't either, so we wouldn't have known in the first place. But it's not like this place is Ghost Central, I mean, nothing really happens here except robberies and break-ins." He gave Dean a look. His brother shrugged, not concerned.

"Well, we'll look it up when we get home." Dean said.

Sam snorted.

"No, you mean _I'll_ look it up when we get home. Since when do you ever do any research these days?" Dean had an offended look on his face.

"Look, I can't see you getting anything done with those hands, so I'll do it, all right? And don't give me that, I research all the time!" Sam snorted again. "…Okay. Maybe every once in awhile."

Sam let out a gusty breath and gazed out the window, thinking about the ghost and how weird today had been. Things had gotten rapidly more violent today, he hadn't been in a life-threatening fight since that time he and Dean had fought a vampire in Seattle. Things had certainly been thrown into perspective. It wasn't every day that you were worried for your life. He felt tears coming on and sucked in a deep breath, trying to hold them back. Dean spoke up.

"Hey, I know you've had a bad day, but come on, enough with the moody face. We're out of school for the rest of the day! I'll find you some Ibuprofen and an icepack, we can watch TV all day, and you won't have any homework to worry about." It sounded like his brother was trying to stave off the waterworks too.

_That's Dean. Always trying to make me see the bright side... and avoiding giving away any sign that he's capable of emotion. Always being the tough guy. _He gave his brother a small smile, sniffing and running a quick hand over his eyes, making himself strong again.

_Just like my big brother._

"Better be some good Ibuprofen." He said. Dean smirked.

"Since I've already earned myself a criminal record, why don't I steal you something from the hospital? That'll perk you right up."

"Or put me to sleep." Sam corrected, rolling his eyes. But he was still smiling. Dean was better than his father and he was the best brother a guy could have. Sam couldn't imagine wanting another.

"But thanks anyway."


End file.
